Bitter Sting
by DinoDina
Summary: Episode tag for "The Unicorn and the Wasp". Davenport mourns for his lover, Roger. Slash.


**Author's note: Watched "The Unicorn and the Wasp", cried, wrote this out in one sitting.**

**Words in this story: 700**

She sits there, moaning, crying, blubbering over her son, calling him back from the dead.

Stupid woman. Stupid, close-minded woman. Doesn't she know he's not coming back?

Not to her, not to her husband, not to the countless ladies hoping to marry him.

Not to him.

Roger was a beautiful man. A beautiful, quiet, kind, caring man. One who wasn't afraid to grab what he wanted, to be who he was. Not to mention, good in bed. One who was an amazing lover, who showed so much love. The key word being. . . "was".

Because Roger was dead.

Dead—not coming back, permanently gone, never to be seen again.

And they don't even know how lucky they are to be crying over him. How lucky they are to be paying their respects to him as family, friends, not a lowly servant who didn't even know him.

Didn't those daintily crying possible fiancées know that he explored every part of Roger's body, knew him inside and out? And his parents, somberly accepting condolences. Didn't they know how terrified Roger was of them finding out and ruining their lives?

They have no right!

No right to judge, no right to prohibit. They couldn't yell at him when he was neglecting his duties by mourning. Somehow, he thinks that if they could only have been open about their relationship, this wouldn't have happened. Enough things would have changed and Roger would still be alive.

And his family. Telling him to find a new job, far from death. They don't know the full story. They don't know how much it hurts. Well, the family that still talks to him, anyway. Not the ones that caught him with the shoemaker's son.

Roger didn't care. He thinks the butler didn't care, either. Maybe old Davenport knew, too. If they did, they didn't know enough to let him have a moment with Roger (with Roger's body), a bit of a final goodbye.

He doesn't really remember if he did get the final goodbye. From the moment he whispered "Roger" to him (the body) everything was much like a haze. There was something about the murderer being a giant bee, and the social lady being the Unicorn. The Doctor chap and his friend Donna solved the mystery.

But that's all. He knows he's sad, knows that there's a hole in his heart, right where Roger was (should be), and that his hands feel empty when he's serving drinks (because there's one less, and that's just _wrong_). He has nothing (no one) to do at break times, and the tree (the meeting place) is like a taunt (you should be here, _together_, he should be here, _together, _you should be here, _together_, he should be here).

But life goes on. People keep coming. The Lady entertains guests with her now standing husband. There is an empty seat at the table, kept empty out of respect, but it is soon filled with yet another visitor. The death of Roger Curbishley is in the newspapers, and he is interviewed by the police, but they get nothing.

When Roger's room is converted into one for guests, it is almost his breaking point. But then the Lady needs something done and the maid is out, so he has to do it. After the death of Roger (those words so not belong in the same sentence) and Miss Chandrakala, there is no one to take control of the house, so he has to do it.

Lady Eddison doesn't thank him for it, or apologize for swelling his workload, just sends him on his merry way after hiring a new housekeeper. The woman doesn't know the first thing about it, and he hates it. He hates the way she's so flippant about it, about things that Roger loved (loves).

When Roger's old friends come to visit and pay their respects, he is trust into the background. He watches them recall fun times and Roger's quirks, his likes and dislikes.

He doesn't get to join. He doesn't get to join in anything. And he doesn't get to complain. That is, he doesn't get time to complain.

Because life goes on.

And it's not fair. . .


End file.
